


A Profound Contradiction

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, One Direction (Band)
Genre: ??? maybe, Asexual Character, But if I continue in this 'verse then it will definitely be Out There soon, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, They're both asexual it's just not really Out There yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1980672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is the charismatic leader of the Les Amis de l'ABC, fighting for the rights of the poor and oppressed in the June 1832 Rebellion. Louis is a cynic and a drunk who believes in and strives for nothing, that is, until he meets Harry.</p><p>A Les Misérables AU, with Harry as Enjolras and Louis as Grantaire, and whoever you want as Combeferre but probably Niall because, like, yeah definitely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Profound Contradiction

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the beginning of an idea I have had for a while and I just wanted to get it out before I forgot how I wanted to start. Just a tiny lil thing to get the idea floating around out there since I haven't seen any Les Mis AU stuff anywhere before.

It was no longer a rarity for Louis to stay long after the Les Amis de l’ABC meetings in the back of Cafe Musain had fallen to a close. He slouched in his usual corner table, well into his fifth glass of wine, willing his drunken hands to steady over the drawing he had started once the group’s conversation had begun to trail from austere idealism to the supposed affair the cafe’s waitresses were part of. Matelote and Gibelotte were nice enough, and a welcome sight, now that he’s thought about it, but their sexual endeavors were not of his concern.

Harry seemed to lose interest as well, his focus shifting from the eyes of his comrades to the densely-filled pages of his law textbook. A more still subject for Louis to focus on, and less confusion about whether Harry’s curls were wilder than usual today or if that was merely an effect of the wine he had drunk so quickly.

Although Harry had finished his studies earlier that afternoon, he had been content to revise his notes once more if it meant being surrounded by his friends for a while longer. He was a man of business and was dedicated to his cause, but Harry understood that the students surrounding him needed time to feel normal. Tensions were building in Paris and they only had so much time before they may not be able to feel any way at all.

Harry had sighed three times in the last five minutes or so, in the way he always did when he was exhausted, head tilting to crack his neck on the inhale and chin sinking to touch his chest on the exhale. He had a habit of running his hands through his chestnut waves and re-tying and tightening the red ribbon in his hair whenever his day had been particularly taxing, and this generally preceded the dramatic sigh. It wasn’t that Louis chose to observe Harry more than the others, just that Harry called his attention in more than a few ways.

Luckily for Harry’s sore neck and Louis’ wobbly hands, Combeferre knew Harry well, too. Quickly noticing Harry’s recession from analytical and observant leader of the abaissés to introspective and overworked student, Combeferre stood abruptly and announced, “Men! It is time that we go, we do not want to pester the lovely Madame Houcheloup,” His voiced raised for those last few words, resulting in a loud guffaw from the next room.

After a few reluctant minutes of finishing drinks and conversations, the men shuffled out of the private exit from the cafe’s hidden room, shaking hands, exchanging hugs, some thanking Harry before quietly making their way out. Combeferre adjusted his overcoat and stroked a hand over Harry’s slightly knotted ponytail, placing the other on his shoulder, and leaned down to whisper something in his ear with a chuckle. Harry smiled and laid a hand appreciatively over his wrist, looking into his eyes with an adoration that seemed reserved only for him, “Tomorrow, brother.” Combeferre nodded a goodbye to Harry, then to Louis, and left, closing the door softly behind him.

The ghost of a smile remained on Harry’s face as he turned his focus back to the page of his schoolbook that he had read three times now. Louis let his eyes drift back to Harry. His brow furrowed as he scanned the words again, his concentration forming an impenetrable bubble around him. Louis focused on the line between his eyebrows when his pencil hit paper.

Most of the conversation in these meetings was absolutely meaningless to Louis. Revolution, religion, humanity, these terms that arise constantly in this small room in the late hours of night signified nothing worth deep thought. He took good care to fuss about nothing, to avoid dedicating himself to any one cause, to never care about something so much that he would die for it.

He aspired to be an artist, when he was younger, but he had grown wiser since then and understood that he would only be viewed in one way if he pronounced himself to be a man of art. As much as he did not want to, he cared that people may think such things about him. He did not mind being seen as a drunk that feared committing, but he did mind being regarded as a man of certain behaviors by association with his career.

Once, he had been told, it is that which we lack that attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind. That is why he attended these meetings. Not because he enjoyed political discourse or hoped to someday have any desire to join the revolution, but because he needed to see Harry’s faith grow. He just needed Harry. His strong, chaste, and effeminate nature charmed him endlessly, without Louis’ awareness; Louis did not contemplate the reason why he was so drawn to the Les Amis de l’ABC meetings in the first place, much less the reason why he had dozens of drawings of Harry in his bag. Louis’ soft, faithless, demure ideas about life were drawn to Harry’s constructed, planned, and thought-out ones like a moth to a flame, and he could not find the courage to confront himself about it.

Louis was a satellite to Harry and his followers. He enjoyed the presence of the Les Amis de l’ABC, and he felt as though he inhabited the space that they shared; he followed this group everywhere they went and felt happy only when surrounded by them. Even in silence, he felt joy knowing they were there, knowing Harry was there. Harry did not find anything appealing about Louis, though, being a sober man. Louis remembered this and the smile that had formed while looking upon Harry’s marble-sculpted face without his knowing quickly faded, and he fumbled for his glass to drink the last few drops.

The gentle tapping of Gibelotte’s shoes approaching distracted Louis from the hole he had been staring into the floorboards, and she asked, just above a whisper, “Another glass?”

As Louis’ mouth opened to thank her and accept her offer, Harry’s right eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch. Louis saw the tiny gesture and immediately read into it all of the silent quips that Harry may as well have said. He knew that he was worthless to Harry, to the Les Amis de l’ABC, when there was silence, for his only contribution to the group was his humor. He knew that sitting drunkenly across from the leader of the revolution and awaiting a dramatic gesture showing his sudden realization of respect and gratitude for his presence was stupid and a fruitless effort. But Louis needed Harry.

“That’s alright,” Louis said, eyes focused on Harry for any sign of a reaction. Gibelotte nodded and meandered away, stopping to pick up a few stray glasses left on a table on the other side of the room before exiting into the noisy storefront. Harry didn’t move, didn’t twitch an eyebrow, showed no sign that he even heard Louis or understood the meaning behind his action. 

Louis huffed and pulled his bookbag up onto his lap, with a bit of difficulty due to his complete lack of depth perception from the wine that he had definitely drunk far too quickly. He placed tonight’s drawing behind the rest of the portraits he’d drawn over the last week and pretended to search through his bag for something, desperate to distract himself from the thoughts running rampant in his mind.

With a groan from the stool, Harry stood abruptly and closed his textbook, papers sticking out from between pages and sections coming unglued. Louis wanted to help him glue the pages in and organize his notes. Shoving his book and belongings into his bag, Harry bit his lower lip and sucked it into his mouth, long eyelashes brushing the top of his cheekbones and strands of dark curls falling in front of his brow. Louis wanted to brush his hair behind his ear.

“I’ll be off then,” Harry muttered softly. He tossed his bag over his shoulder and pulled his ponytail out from under the strap, walking towards the door. Louis quickly stood on shaky legs and held his bag with one hand, the other gripping the table beside him in an effort to maintain balance. Harry was halfway through the door when he paused and turned toward Louis, his eyes looking up for the first time since Combeferre whispered to him and made him smile.

Emerald eyes focused on Louis’ knees, knocking together every few moments, then trailed up to the hand in a white-knuckle grip on the table. Finally, Harry’s focus dragged up Louis’ torso and to his own blue eyes. Louis’ breath caught in his chest and he held onto the table even harder, trying not to fail Harry this time. He couldn’t interpret what Harry was trying to tell him with his eyes; he looked mildly concerned, slightly disdainful, and entirely contemplative. Louis licked his lips out of nervousness. Harry held his stare, gradually raising his chin. His eyes fell back to the hand gripping the edge of the wooden table, for just a moment, then he was gone.

 

 


End file.
